


221b Baker Street Advent Calendar 2019

by Anarion, days_of_storm



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Advent Calendar, Also sexy times I believe, And more creepiness, BAMF Sherlock Holmes, Blood, Creepy POV is creepy, Definitely a case, Drabbles and such, Established Relationship, Fairy Lights, Fluff ahead, Greg and Molly have adopted Rosie, Humor, Knifes and Guns, M/M, Maybe even a case, Mild Hurt/Comfort, Other Additional Tags to Be Added, POV Multiple, Sexy Times, Suddenly there is lots of blood!, Uh oh!, Weehee case closed, Where is the fluff???, murders, there's your fluff!
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-12-01
Updated: 2019-12-24
Packaged: 2021-02-25 22:14:56
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 24
Words: 16,310
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21632761
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Anarion/pseuds/Anarion, https://archiveofourown.org/users/days_of_storm/pseuds/days_of_storm
Summary: This is a one-chapter-per-day story for the Advent Calendar 2019 Challenge.
Relationships: Molly Hooper/Greg Lestrade, Sherlock Holmes/John Watson
Comments: 191
Kudos: 96
Collections: 2019 Advent Ficlet Challenge





	1. Snowflake

The rare quiet atmosphere that filled 221b Baker Street was about to be destroyed. 

But for now, it wasn’t yet, it was still softly encasing the flat. The case had been solved the day before, Sherlock passed out on the sofa since then and John had used the time to catch up on some sleep and deal with the usual mess that was their flat after a case.

Greg had come over with pastries for a late breakfast and the accounts of the wrapping up of the case. They were sitting at the (for once empty and clean) kitchen table, sipping tea and talking quietly. Needlessly, because not even an explosion could wake Sherlock from his post-case-sleep, something which had once been proven by an actual explosion in the bathroom.

Sherlock often dreamt vividly during those times, and now and then mumbled or even talked in his sleep. Used to his weird antics, neither of the men in the kitchen reacted much when he suddenly sat up and said very clearly to no one in particular, “No, that is not how you construct a tangent to two circles!”

That was not the thing that destroyed the rare quiet atmosphere that filled 221b Baker Street, though. Sherlock flopped back down and went back to sleep, Greg continued to tell John about Rosie.

The thing that destroyed the rare quiet atmosphere that filled 221b Baker Street happened 5 minutes later when Greg’s mobile rang. He listened for a few moments and then told John that three bodies had been found in different parts of London, all three with a snowflake tattoo.

And while not even an explosion could wake Sherlock from his post-case-sleep, the mention of bodies or murder could, something which was (again) proven right that second, because Sherlock jumped up, wide awake and was already out the door before either John or Greg had even got up.


	2. Wish

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> This is a one-chapter-per-day story for the Advent Calendar 2019 Challenge.

John and Greg hastened to get their coats on while Sherlock simply used the momentum of rushing down the stairs to slide into his coat and he had wound his scarf around his neck and slipped into his gloves, one hand raised to stop a cab which came to a halt with squealing tyres, obviously surprised by the sudden appearance of the dark energetic man in front of it before either John or Greg had left the flat.

John was still trying to do up the zipper on his coat when he sat down next to Sherlock, breathing heavily. Greg was in slightly better shape, somehow appearing to have expected something like this to happen, which worried John a little. After all these years, it still bugged him when he realised that, occasionally, Greg knew Sherlock better than he did.

As if sensing John’s grumpiness, Sherlock turned around to face him, ruffled his hair a little while smiling excitedly at him. And John couldn’t help but to reach out and gently touch the side of his face that still carried an imprint of the edge of the sofa cushion, trying to smooth out the lines. 

For a quick moment, Sherlock’s expression changed subtly, as if, for one second only, Sherlock considered whether not having a case might have been preferable to having one. And that was all John needed. Just that tiny moment of doubt which immediately dissolved when he smiled at Sherlock, meant the world to John and restored his mood to match Sherlock’s. 

Sherlock gently placed his hand over John’s and leaned into the touch before John pulled it away to let him get on with the usual routine. “Greg,” Sherlock turned to him, beaming. “Tell me everything you have on the case!”

They arrived at the first crime scene at Covent Garden a few minutes later. The body had been found under one of the merchant’s stalls, carrying Christmas cards and other printed materials. The corpse has been covered by a sheet to hide the sight from the crowd that had gathered around the taped off area, hungry to catch a glimpse at the gruesome scene. Blood splatters covered the ground around the body, but, to John’s surprise, Sherlock did not immediately whip out his magnifying glass to get a closer look at the splashes, nor did he uncover the body and ask for John’s medical opinion. He stood and stared at the merchandise on the stall, that far-away look on his face when he was searching for something in his mind palace. Finally, he shook his head as if to clear it and turned to John.

“Notice anything peculiar?” he asked, rocking back and forth on his heels now - possibly against the cold, but more probably because he always got excited when asking John to make an observation, always hoping - often in vain - that John would see what he saw. 

“Kitschy Christmas cards with lots of glitter on them?”

“And?”

“Posters? Jute bags? Notebooks?”

“And?” Sherlock had stopped rocking. 

John shrugged. He had no idea what Sherlock was trying to get him to see. “They all have the same slogan written on it?”

“Exactly. Make a wish!” Sherlock started rocking again and John felt a tiny bit proud, even though he had no idea why Sherlock thought that to be important. 

“Oh,” Greg suddenly said, sounding excited. “The Christmas murderer?”

“Oh,” Sherlock scoffed. “Don’t call him that!” 

“Everybody calls him that,” Greg defended himself. 

“Exactly. Pedestrian!”

“Who is the Christmas murderer?” John asked and Sherlock made a face as if he were in severe pain. “Not you, too, John! Please!”

“Sherlock. Just tell me!”

Sherlock sighed the sigh of a tortured soul and began rushing through a series of murders in the early 1980s during which someone had left cards with “Make a Wish” printed on them in scarlet letters. It had turned out to be an out of work actor who earned a little money posing as Santa in shopping centres in the outskirts of London. He had finally been caught when he was hit by a car and a handful of the printed cards fluttered out of his costume pockets. “I would have found him after the first murder, but I was … not allowed to pursue the case.”

“You were a child, Sherlock,” John noted and Sherlock didn’t seem to find that to be relevant at all. 

“In any case, we might have a copycat on our hands here,” he grinned and rubbed his own hands gleefully.


	3. The more the merrier

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “Is this really the only room we can use? It smells.”

“Is this really the only room we can use? It smells.”

“The station is being renovated, be happy we have _any_ room.”

“I really don’t need to be here, how am I supposed to think with all you people in the room.”

“It’s just Sally and me, Sherlock.”

“Where is John? He was here moments ago. Wasn’t he?”

“Yes, he was. He went to get coffee; didn’t you listen to him?”

“I’m _working_!”

Sally rolled her eyes at Greg and turned to the wall to pin more crime scene pictures to it.

5 minutes later John returned with the coffee and Anderson in tow.

“No, not him!”

“What are you? Five? I have important information.”

“You never have important information.”

“Sherlock, behave. What is it, Anderson?”

“I tracked down the DIs working the case of the Christmas Murderer back in the 80s.”

“Don’t call him that!”

“Sherlock!”

“What, John?”

“That really is not helping.”

With five people and a table in the room one had to be careful to not step on anybody’s feet. Sherlock, who wandered around while thinking, of course was not careful.  
45 minutes later a uniform ushered two elderly men in and announced the two DIs. Sherlock promptly stepped on the taller man’s foot.


	4. Lights

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> This is a one-chapter-per-day story for the Advent Calendar 2019 Challenge.

After convincing Sherlock that John absolutely and presently needed to eat something as well as a bit of a breather or else he would faint in the tiny overcrowded room, Sherlock finally allowed John to pull him away from the files he had taken off the two DIs and apparently randomly added to Greg’s pin board. 

“You can’t possibly have been able to think in there,” John shook his head as he wolfed down a slice of pizza as large as his arm, squinting at the bright neon-light of the pizzeria. 

Sherlock simply smirked, a look of pity and adoration on his face. 

“Breathing is boring,” he reminded John, who stopped chewing for a moment, remembering quite clearly that he repeated the line from one of the first conversations between him and Sherlock, back in a time when he had no idea just how decidedly his life would change because of the mad genius that now sat in front of him, going very lightly grey at the temples, carrying a few more scars and a lot more laughter lines. 

Sherlock caught him stopping and had the decency to look a little bashful before he poked his finger into the melting cheese on John’s pizza slice and scooped some of it into his mouth. 

“You know, when the murders initially happened, I collected evidence about sightings of Santa Claus,” he leaned back in his chair and licked his lips. John began eating again, feeling a little more at peace with the world. “There had been six seperate sightings of flats in which strange shoe prints were found on carpets. In some cases, the biscuits and milk that children had left on the window sill had been consumed. It was generally thought that someone was playing a trick on them, trying to get them to believe in Santa. Possibly just unrelated instances of parents trying to convince their children that a stranger would fly around the world in a single night and leave them gifts to find in the morning in exchange for sweets. But, those parents always refused to admit to that. This means that the murderer might have had a choice of victims.”

“When you say … choice,” John tried to frown, but he knew that Sherlock’s skewed way of seeing the world couldn’t be rectified by judgmental looks or politely cleared throats or gentle reprimands.

“As you know, all serial killers have specific patterns and types. So far, I’ve only seen the one body and the victims of the original murders. Remember the snowflake? It almost seems too easy to consider that this is _the_ link between the victims. I am sure that if we get all the details from the other crime scenes, the more obvious pattern will be found in the “Make a Wish” slogan. 

“So you solved the case already?” John was ready to be impressed, but he couldn’t see how Sherlock could already know who had committed the murders and why. “Do you think someone who hates Christmas themed stationery killed those people?”

Sherlock chuckled. “No. But I do have theories. Six, to be exact. Maybe seven.” 

“Gents,” the man behind the counter interrupted them, holding up his hands. “We’re closing in a couple of minutes. Eat up, please?”

John looked down on the remains of his slice of pizza. “I’m good, I think. Let’s go home?”

He could see Sherlock inhale in order to protest, but when he looked at John’s undoubtedly tired face, he thought better of it and nodded. “I need to borrow your laptop.”

“Fine. As long as I get to sleep a little.”

Sherlock chuckled and with a flourish of his coat, left the shop. When John joined him outside, the lights were switched off behind him, leaving only the colourful fairy lights in the shop window to illuminate them from behind. He stepped close to Sherlock and leaned against him for a moment. When something cold settled on his face, he opened his eyes which he hadn’t quite realised had fallen closed. Sherlock’s breath curled through the air above his head and all around them, the air was glistening with the first snow of the year. 

John smiled up at Sherlock. “This is nice.”

“Hmm", Sherlock wrapped his arm around his shoulder and gently tugged him along. “I quite agree. There’s snow and a couple of murders …”

John chuckled. “Please don’t tell me that you like snow only because you can see blood splatters and footprints better in it.” 

Sherlock’s silence was all the answer John needed. He pulled him closer by the hip, both for warmth and the general need to be close to him. 

By the time they had reached Baker Street, the city was covered in two inches of fresh, heavy snow. John knew that most of it would be gone in the morning, as the city was too warm to carry snow for long, but he did stop on the second step to their front door and turned around to look at the street which lay calm and quite behind them, glistening in the orange light of the street lamps.


	5. Wind

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> He looked out of the dusty attic window over the vast expanse of London.

He looked out of the dusty attic window over the vast expanse of London. Having a house on a hill had certain advantages. Even if the house was old and creaky and not much to look at. He watched the trees moving in the wind and thought he could already smell snow in the air. He liked the way snow covered everything and made the world more quiet.

He had so much to do, so many things to prepare and still he lingered; basking in the knowledge of being a good disciple, of having done well.

The city seemed very peaceful in the dark, but some of the people down there knew that the night was dark and full of terrors. He smiled to himself. It felt good to be one of them.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I sincerely apologise for the brevity of my entries. Real life has decided that this week needs to be extra hard on me. :(  
> But thankfully Days_of_Storm has got my back and verbosity for the both of us! :*


	6. Angel

John woke up in the middle of the night, being absolutely certain that Sherlock had not even entered the bedroom since he had crawled under the covers, hoping against hope that Sherlock might join him. But he had rested after the last case and the new one had him wide awake. 

He dragged himself to the bathroom and then, wrapping his bathrobe around himself tightly, he made his way into the living room. Sherlock sat at the desk, typing away on John's laptop. 

“Hmm, what are you doing?” John asked, stifling a yawn. 

Sherlock looked up for a moment and smiled. “I always thought that crime went decreased Christmas. It appears that this is not the case. Statistically, petty crimes are not booked, because police officers and even judges appear to adopt a misguided sense of kindness in December, but once you start searching …” he looked at the screen again. “Psychopaths, particularly, love the holiday season to commit the most gruesome murders. I wonder if the cause is to be found in traumatic early childhood experiences around Christmas. Hmm, I’m almost certain our man falls into that category.”

“A man, you think?”

“Obviously.”

“And a psychopath.”

“Very likely someone with a power complex, too. Someone walking through the crowd, smiling while picking out their next victim.”

“Right.”

“Possibly also imitating traditions. Remember the missing cookies? Sooty footprints?”

John shuddered. He was too tired and cold for this.

“I’m glad you are making progress. I’m going back to bed, though. I’d love if you’d join me at some point.”

Sherlock looked up again. “Did I wake you up?”

“No. I don’t know why I’m awake. Maybe I missed you,” he grinned tiredly at Sherlock whose face did a funny thing for a moment. Sherlock stood up and walked the few paces over to where John stood and wrapped his arms around him.

“I’m sorry.”

“No. It’s fine. You have a case. I’m happy for you.”

“That's what they say in these terrible films when someone gets married and their secret admirer is confronted with the …”

“Oh, shut up, Sherlock. I mean it. You’re doing important work and it excites you. I mean, I’d rather not have people be killed in the first place, but considering the circumstances ...”

“Thank you,” Sherlock gently stroked John’s back and kissed him and John melted against his lips, only wishing to be lying down. It had been some time since they had fallen asleep in each other’s arms. He hoped that Sherlock would be fast in solving the case.

“Good night,” he detached himself from Sherlock and turned to go back to the bedroom when his eyes fell on something strange outside in the street. Most of the snow had turned into slush after it had stopped snowing, and the street lights coloured it orange where the ground didn’t peek through. Under one of the lamps stood an angel.

John blinked and rubbed his eyes, thinking that maybe his tired mind was playing tricks on him, but the figure remained standing there, eerily still and tinged in orange, just like the snow, making John believe that the long dress must have been snow white, too. The head was covered in what he guessed were blond curls and what must have been closed wings were visible behind them.

“Sherlock,” John beckoned him to come and see what he saw, but when Sherlock had taken the few steps to the window, the figure was gone.

“What …”

“What is it?”

“I’m sure I just saw an angel down there.”

“An angel?”

“Hmm, wings and all. God, I need to go back to bed, I’m hallucinating.”

Sherlock stood by the window, appearing to stare outside, but his eyes were moving back and forth quickly. “An angel,” Sherlock muttered quietly. “An angel.”

“Good night, love,” John said, if only to see how far Sherlock had disappeared in his head.

“Night, John,” Sherlock said without turning around. And despite the cold sheets, John was a little bit smug that Sherlock had reacted after all. He closed his eyes to the memory of the strange figure standing outside across from their flat.


	7. Ashes and Soot

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Anarion couldn't post for personal reasons, so I'm posting her chapter today. If you wouldn't mind, send some love and positive vibes her way? Thanks! x  
> Days of Storm

The next morning started with a phone call, which resulted in rushed tea, no toast, and banging doors. 48 minutes later they had gathered in a flat in Chiswick.

The living room was all white, white carpet, white sofa, white bookcases. The only thing not white were a line of sooty footprints from the chimney to the window.

“My wife left some biscuits on the windowsill, probably as a joke.”

“No, sentiment.”

“Maybe you’re right. Either way, she did not expect someone to come in and eat them.” The husband looked more baffled than scared, which struck John as odd. Someone _had_ broken into their flat after all, even if they didn’t take anything but the biscuits.

Sherlock followed the prints from the window to the chimney, went down on his knees and looked up the chimney. Then he turned and looked at John.

“Oh no, I am not going to climb up that chimney. Not even in December.”

Sherlock looked at John quizzically and Lestrade huffed out an exasperated breath. “If he asks why December is relevant to chimney climbing, I’m going to cry.”

John grinned and Sherlock opened his mouth to explain that he of course knew that gullible people believed that Santa came down the chimney (he only knew because it was relevant to a case, of course), a statement that was to be followed by a lengthy explanation of why John was so much better suited to climb up that chimney, but all of that was cut short by Anderson shouting, “He must have taken off his shoes to go back to the chimney! How else did he not leave footprints?”

Four pairs of eyes locked on him. He took a step back and almost fell over a small chair (white).

“He climbed out the window, you idiot.”

“Actually, he didn’t.”

Four pairs of eyes locked on the husband. He took a step back and was stopped by the wall (also white).

“What?”

“The…um… the window is bolted shut. My wife is scared of burglars. And yes, I know that sounds ridiculous given the reason we are standing here.”

“Were any of your doors unlocked this morning?”

“No.”

“So how _did_ he get out?”

“I’m telling you…”

“Shut up, Anderson.”

Sherlock would have rather eaten the tiny (white) table than admit that Anderson might be right.

Suddenly way more interested in the chimney and in going up than before, Sherlock tossed his coat to John and disappeared.


	8. Warm Bath

John managed not to laugh until they had left the crime scene and Lestrade had forced Sherlock to wrap a shock blanket around himself so the police car that was taking them home - instead of going to the third crime scene - wouldn’t forever carry a sooty imprint of Sherlock’s arse on the backseat. His coat had been carefully wrapped in a plastic bag, as per Sherlock’s instructions. He was clearly more worried about not getting his coat dirty than any other thing in the world. 

By the time they drove off, John’s entire face hurt from trying not to laugh and when Sherlock grumbled something along the lines of “I never want Anderson anywhere near a crime scene again,” he lost it completely. He burst out laughing, clasping the seat in front of him hard enough to worry the driving officer. “Sherl … Sherlo…. Jesus! Sherlock. The look on your face. I can’t …” he gasped for breath, tears running down his face, making him laugh even harder. 

Sherlock was very quiet, and when John managed to wipe the tears out of his eyes and sit up straight again, still giggling uncontrollably, he looked like a very angry, very battered and dirty owl which had been rescued by animal services and which couldn’t wait to flutter away again - if it weren’t for the protective orange towel wrapped around it. The way he held the blanket close around him while peering over it’s edge at John led to new peals of laughter. 

John clasped his middle, gasping again because laughing this hard gave him cramps, but he still couldn’t stop. He did notice, quite gratefully, that the officer in the front of the car was amused, but managed to hold her laughter in. 

“Jesus,” he finally said again, trying to regain control. “I’m sorry, but you just … you look like …”

Sherlock cleared his throat, clearly getting ready to berate John for being amused by something so pedestrian as dirt. So in order to make sure that he wouldn’t, John moved a little closer, and, careful not to touch any sooty part of Sherlock, pressed a kiss to his mouth. Then his tongue darted out and he tasted soot even on his own lips. Sherlock did crack a smile at John’s disgusted expression then, and John felt slightly less guilty for laughing. 

Yet, for the final minutes of the ride, he couldn’t stop bursting into giggles again and again. Once they reached Baker Street, John helped to manoeuvre Sherlock out of the car but then made him kick off his shoes on the stoop, and, once the door was closed, take off his trousers before going up the stairs. It was exactly at that moment that John had carefully turned his trousers inside out and the shoes dangled one arm’s length away from Sherlock, who was just starting to climb the stairs in socks and pants, while still wearing his shirt, jacket and scarf on top, that Mrs Hudson came out of her door, ready to take out the trash. 

She stopped in her tracks and then cocked her head, her eyes moving back and forth between John, holding the bag with the coat and the trousers, while Sherlock looked like he was trying to sneak up the stairs silently, that John realised how much like a very strange version of Santa (or rather the Grinch) and his helper they must have looked like. He and Mrs Hudson started laughing at the same time. For a moment, Sherlock looked like he was going to drop the shoes and not take any further steps of not getting soot everywhere, but then he sighed and joined in their laughter. 

A few minutes later, John was running a bath while cramming Sherlock’s clothes into an even larger bag. Sherlock would have to get them cleaned professionally anyway, so he wouldn’t mind if they creased now. 

“Come here, your bath is ready” he called out, but Sherlock was already on the threshold to the bathroom. He must have watched him silently. The thought sent a delicious bolt of heat down his spine. 

“I’m here.”

“Good,” John stood up and walked over to him. He was naked now, but his hands and his entire face and parts of his neck were covered in greasy black stains. 

“Please don’t ever do something like that again?”

“I proved that the murderer couldn’t have come through the chimney. The footprints were too clean, all things considered.”

“That was Anderson’s theory,” John pointed out, gently running his hands across Sherlock’s clean chest. 

“No. He just said the murderer came through the window.”

“Same thing,” John shook his head with a grin. “I guess you’ll have to apologise to him. He was right for once.”

“The window was bolted shut.”

“Windows can be unlocked, and locked again before detectives arrive, can’t they?”

Sherlock sighed and scrunched up his nose. “I don’t want to think about that right now. I need to see the other two crime scenes.”

“You could have been there already, if you hadn’t attempted to show the world that you are lanky enough to fit through a goddamned chimney! Now get in the bath!” John chided him and when Sherlock passed him, he slapped his arse soundly. 

“What was that for?”

“Just an … itch that needed scratching,” John grinned. 

He watched Sherlock settle into the bubble bath and for a moment, he couldn’t hold back his laughter when all the sooty bits were still above water while the clean body parts were underwater. 

“Help me?” Sherlock pouted and held up his dirty hands. 

“Fine,” John rolled up the sleeves of his shirt and found a sponge somewhere that he was sure neither of them had ever used. Then he sat on the rim of the bathtub and slowly rubbed shampoo into Sherlock’s hair before he gently cleaned his face and hands. It felt very intimate to him, running the edge of the sponge along his nose and cheek bones, his jawline and his forehead. When he was done, he washed out the sponge and repeated the action, even though his first attempt had been quite successful. Sherlock had closed his eyes and was leaning against his right hand which rested against the back of his head. He signed when John ran the sponge down from his chin to his collarbone.

Unable to hold back any longer, John leaned down to kiss him gently and Sherlock deepened the kiss immediately, opening his mouth and moaning quietly. 

“Hands,” John whispered when he pulled back again, and Sherlock held up his hands to him. Because they had been soaking for some time now, they were almost clean already, but John took his time with them too, brushing the sponge over each finger and his palms and wrists, again and again until he dropped the sponge and just held his hands in his. 

He had no idea why it suddenly felt important that it was just the two of them in the small bathroom, completely detached from anything else that was happening. But for a moment, John found it hard to breathe and Sherlock seemed to notice and sat up a little to be able to wrap his arms around John’s waist and press his face against his stomach. 

“Sleep with me tonight?” John asked, brushing his hands through Sherlock’s wet hair. 

“Tonight?” Sherlock asked and looked up at him with burning eyes. “I don’t know. I mean, I don’t know what I will be doing tonight, so maybe …” He loosened his arms and opened John’s trousers, carefully pulling him out and into his mouth. John moaned quietly, trying to remember when Sherlock had last done that to him. He sucked him into hardness and then slowly, lovingly, brought him to orgasm. John’s eyes were fixed on Sherlock’s face when he came and some of it splashed into the bathwater while Sherlock managed to swallow some. 

John stood up and zipped himself up again before he knelt down in front of the bathtub and plunged his left arm into the water. It had taken on a grey colour and Sherlock clearly needed to shower before stepping out of the bath to rinse off the rest of the dirt, but for now, John couldn’t care less.

He found him already quite hard when he wrapped his hand around him and Sherlock shuddered when he began stroking him. After a while, he kissed him again and they continued to kiss until Sherlock came apart under his hand, clasping the rim of the bathtub hard as he shuddered through his orgasm. 

It took them a while until they were ready to step out of their little moment of peace, but eventually Sherlock remembered that he had places to be and only himself to blame for the delay, so he unplugged the tub and then washed again quickly while John made tea and toast, which they did take the time to eat, and brought him fresh clothes. 

They kissed deeply again before they left the flat for the second time that day, but this time with less urgency than in the morning.


	9. Festive

Mrs Hudson went back into her flat after putting the rubbish out, still smiling to herself. She didn’t know what the two men were up to this time, but she liked seeing Sherlock happy and laughing.

She had taken the mail inside with her and dropped in on the table next to the door. She would sort it later. First she made some tea, listening to the gurgling pipes. A much needed bath was being run upstairs, she just hoped Sherlock would not touch anything until he was clean.

She took her tea and her crossword puzzle into the living room, which was the furthest away from the bathroom. She’d been living with her tenants long enough to know what things bathtimes led to.

She resurfaced from her puzzle when she heard John and Sherlock coming down the stairs again. She got up when the door slammed, because she’d just remembered the mail.

She sorted it into two piles, one her own mail, one for 221b. Her pile mostly consisted of festive greeting cards. Oh, this one for Sherlock looked interesting! It was quite heavy and had a snowflake print on it. 

She smiled as she put it on top of the pile and went back to her crossword puzzle.


	10. Once a Year

Lestrade was back at the Yard, filing reports, but he had given them access to the next crime scene. An officer had shown them up the stairs but then left immediately, her face slightly green. 

“Sherlock?” John had been the first one through the door and was immediately thrown off by the sight and smell that greeted him. There was a lot of blood, more blood than there should be, or could be, really, if only one person had been killed. 

Sherlock appeared behind him and while John was fairly certain that Sherlock was excited about the stains on the carpet and hardwood floor, he stood behind John and allowed him to lean against him for a moment. Sherlock might have mocked him once for being empathetic, but, at least where John’s wellbeing was concerned, Sherlock had developed almost a sixth sense and immediately realised when John did not feel comfortable. John’s PTSD had been lying dormant for quite some time now, but the sight of the crime scene brought back memories that John would have rather left untouched. 

“Do you need to leave?” Sherlock asked quietly, his hand clasping John’s shoulder to give him something to concentrate on.

John exhaled slowly and forced himself to look at the blood. This was a crime scene. They were trying to find a murderer and stop them … him … from committing any more murders. This was important and his expertise was very likely needed now. “I’ll be fine,” he said, his voice a little rough. 

“Right,” Sherlock said and squeezed his shoulder briefly before he walked past him and circled the blood stain once, his eyes flicking left and right and up and down through the room before he knelt down on the ground and sniffed the stain. John felt slightly sick, but it helped to remind himself of his purpose in this. “It’s blood, Sherlock,” he cleared his throat. “And I think it’s more than one person’s blood.”

Sherlock looked up at him with a smile. “Oh, interesting. Maybe the murderer’s?”

“Maybe,” John shrugged. “Where is the body.”

“At the morgue, apparently,” Sherlock sighed. “Can’t have it all.”

“We can go and say hi to Molly,” John suggested, trying to remember whether they had invited her and Greg to their Christmas dinner already. It wouldn’t hurt to do it twice, just in case. 

Sherlock stood up again and then pulled a chair close to the edge of the stain and climbed onto it. He looked at the blood as if it were a map. John came to stand next to the chair and followed his eyes. 

“Something tells me that the blood is neither the victim’s, not the murderer’s.”

“Something?”

“Hmm, how much blood do you think this is?”

“Hard to say. It's coagulated already. 10 litres, maybe?”

“Hmm,” Sherlock nodded and began looking at the room, his fingers dancing through the air as if he was touching invisble objects. 

“So you think this is …”

“Isn’t human blood, yes,” Sherlock nodded and John immediately felt relief at the unexpected answer, even though he couldn’t quite say why. He opened a window to allow himself to breathe freely and suddenly things became a lot clearer. “Sherlock. What if this was meant for black pudding? It’s the holiday season and this amount of blood … could have been for cooking.”

“John! You’re a genius!”

“That’s not what you usually say,” John turned around and found Sherlock grinning happily. 

“Well, you get to be right once a year,” he came to stand next to John and his grin grew a little less excited and a lot gentler. “I’ll have them run tests, but it does make sense in the greater scheme of things.”

“How so?” 

“Make a wish!” Sherlock declared, as if that should be the obvious solution to the problem.


	11. Chimney

He dropped his expensive coat over a chair in the kitchen and walked over to the fireplace in the living room, the recently developed photographs in his hand. He smiled at the thought of this mundane task - having pictures developed. In December that probably evoked ideas of holiday greeting cards with cheery family pictures in front of a tree.

He opened the envelope and pulled the pictures out. Thank God this task was done by machines now, otherwise his choice of subject would have raised questions, no doubt.  
The first one had turned out beautifully. Her skin was paperwhite and the black tattoo of the snowflake stood out perfectly. It was a piece of art.

He took the picture and put it up next to the others on the picture wall over the fireplace. Then he poured himself a drink, sat down in his favourite armchair and gazed at the pictures with a sense of satisfaction.


	12. Bah Humbug

The flat of the third victim looked nothing like the other crime scenes. The stall at Covent Garden had been covered in blood splatters, the flat whose chimney Sherlock had decided to climb up, and the man’s flat that was covered in blood had all been places that were obviously crime scenes. Sherlock had, in fact, found a recipe for black pudding in the kitchen of that flat and all but confirmed that the man had had ordered three gallons of fresh pig’s blood for a large scale cooking project. They had hunted down the delivery man from a farm just outside of London, but he clearly did not have anything to do with the murders. 

Sherlock stepped into the small, shabby room and turned around himself once. There was very little blood on the bed, but everything else looked untouched. There was no fight, Sherlock stated, his fingers hovering over the sheets. “The victim was out of work. Had been for some time. Struggled with addiction, but went to meetings regularly.”

“She also had the tattoo?” John asked, wondering how three completely unrelated people from all over London were murdered by a man whose only connection appeared to be the snowflake tattoo. “Do we have any idea who the tattoo artist is?”

“I’m afraid, that’ll be the fourth body,” Sherlock shrugged. “My homeless network came up empty handed. There’s no place in London that offers that specific image. And they found snowflake drawings and ink at the man’s place.”

“Three men, one woman. All have the tattoo, including the man who tattooed the others?”

“Yes.”

“So they all did know that one person.”

“Yes.”

John sighed. Sherlock clearly wasn’t willing to share his theory with him, so he followed him outside into the descending afternoon darkness to visit the crime scene of the fourth murder.

“What about the man with the chimney?” John asked once they sat in a cab to Hampstead Heath. 

“Oh, the murderer was there. It’s the same shoe print.”

“What? What shoe print?”

“It was in the blood. Both at covent garden and in the other flat.”

“Why didn’t you say anything.”

Sherlock shrugged. “I thought it was obvious.”

“Well, it wasn’t to me.” John said, a little annoyed, but he was probably just hungry. The toast and tea hadn't really been sufficient as a meal and the bloody crime scene had left him exhausted. “Can we stop somewhere and eat?”

Sherlock pulled a bran bar out of his coat pocket. “Eat.”

John knew that arguing now wouldn’t help him at all, so he silently took the bar and chewed on it, lost in thoughts.

“The man with the white flat cleary locked that window again. He probably doesn't even remember doing it. His OCD forced him to check that the window is locked. He probably checked and closed it, because it’s what he does. Maybe he remembers that it was unlocked and therefore disruptive, but nowhere near as much as the foot prints. He would have been concentrating on those. He was clearly uncomfortable with them on his carpet and, well, you saw that he didn’t let me in again after …”

“Right,” John nodded. Neither the man nor his wife has seemed in any way sinister to him. 

The fourth murder scene was somewhat more spectacular, because, as Sherlock had already indicated, the man had been an artist. His flat was full of arts and crafts materials, including self-made cards that read “Make a Wish” and “You say Bah Humbug, I say Bahamas”. John chuckled at that one while ignoring the blood stains on the carpet. 

Sherlock was, once again, scanning the room carefully. “Let’s go and see Molly,” he finally said, pocketing something. John knew better than to ask what he had taken from the crime scene.


	13. Family

Molly was not happy.

“This is really not what I need, this time of the year!”

John wondered if that meant a quadruple murder would be welcome any other time of the year. Greg wondered why she made it sound like _he_ put those four bodies on her slab personally. Sherlock wondered why they were still standing in the hallway.

“Cause of death?” Lestrade finally asked.

“Stabbed. It’s all in here.” She handed him four files. He was about to hand them over to Sherlock, but he waved them away. Clearly cause of death was not important to him right then.

“What about the tattoos?” Sherlock asked.

“They were all very recent, except the one that the fourth victim had. That’s older. Do you need to know how old exactly?”

“Hm? No.”

He turned and stared out the window for a few minutes. 

“I have to go check something. John, why don’t you go home and get some sleep. You are no use to me like this.”

“Charming, as always. I’m not letting you run off on your own. We already had this discussion. Innumerable times, I might add.”

“I won’t be alone. I’m taking Lestrade. I need someone to drive me anyway.”

Lestrade snorted like a good-natured horse.  
*  
In the end, John did go home to get some sleep. He curled up in their bed and already missed Sherlock’s warmth next to him. He thought about their conversation earlier that day (had that really only been this afternoon, he wondered. Too many crime scenes for one day, that was for sure…) and tried to tell himself to not expect Sherlock.

He had slept a couple of hours when he heard someone moving in the room and then a warm and familiar body slid under the covers next to him. Sherlock snuggled up to him and pressed a gentle kiss to John’s neck. John wasn’t sure if he was dreaming, but either way it was a pleasant way to drift back to sleep.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I am soooo tired, there was no way this chapter wasn't ending with someone sleeping. ;)  
> I am also not sure if this chapter makes much sense. *hands the whole shebang to Days of storm with a shrug and a helpless smile*


	14. Not a Creature Was Stirring

When he woke up again, it was still dark outside. For a moment, John wondered once more whether he had just dreamt of Sherlock joining him in bed, but when he reached out, he found the solid, warm body next to him. Sherlock was breathing deeply and regularly and John was glad that he hadn’t woken him up. After all, Sherlock’s brain work was exhausting, no matter what he said. 

For a while, John simply lay in bed, listening to Sherlock’s breathing. Then his bladder dictated him to leave the bed and he quietly made his way into the bathroom. He felt strangely awake, so he decided to get some water and maybe set the table for breakfast already before going back to bed. After he had carefully set down the plates and mugs, he came to stand by the window. He remembered the strange angel and wondered if it had been one of those people dressing up and then roaming Oxford Street and Trafalgar Square in the hopes of earning some extra cash. 

As he stood there, he realised how quiet it was. London was always noisy, even in the middle of the night, whether it was sirens going off in the distance, drunk people walking home from the clubs or just the noises of cars in general. But just then, it was eerily quiet. “‘Twas the night before Christmas,” John grinned as he quietly recited the lines which he had not thought of in ages. “And all through the house, not a creature was stirring, not even a mouse.” 

“Hey,” Sherlock had, once more, silently crept into the room without John noticing. John started and turned around to chide him, but Sherlock was gloriously naked and John forgot all about telling him off. “Come back to bed?”

“In a moment.”

“Are you alright?” Sherlock rubbed his eyes and John stepped away from the window and made his way towards him. Yet he stopped a few feet away. 

“I am. Are you?”

Sherlock sighed. “Lonely.”

“Says the man who didn’t share my bed in a week.”

“The case …” Sherlock started and John held up his hand. 

“I understand.”

“I missed you, too, you know?” Sherlock said quietly and John felt something warm settle in his gut. “I know I don’t say it enough, but I do miss you when I am working and you're not there with me.”

John wondered if it would be overdramatic to shed a few tears in the middle of the night in their living room. He swallowed down the impulse and finally closed the gap between them. 

“Okay," he whispered and kissed Sherlock gently. "Let’s go back.”

Sherlock smiled and dropped his head forward, rubbing his forehead against John’s shoulder as if he were a cat. John chuckled and ruffled his hair, leading to Sherlock intensifying his playfulness. He growled quietly and then bit at his neck before his tongue darted out to lick at the skin between his teeth. John felt a spark of heat run down his spine and he sighed deeply. 

A few moments later, Sherlock stopped what he was doing, straightened up and looked him straight in the eye. 

“I think there’s a creature stirring after all,” he said before he started giggling. 

John couldn’t help but laugh, too, and pulled him into the bedroom. 

The first light was peeking over the horizon when they fell asleep again, happy and exhausted and sated.


	15. Midnight

Sherlock woke him when he stumbled out of bed at 10:00. John blinked at the clock on the nightstand, was impressed that Sherlock even stayed in bed that long and went back to sleep. 

Sherlock showered and made tea, listening to John’s gentle snoring from the bedroom. He was glad that he’d decided to come home after the suspect turned out to be a dead end (not in the literal sense). He was still driven by cases, but some of the urgency had left him when John stepped into his life.

There was a knock on the door and then Mrs Hudson poked her head in. “Yoo-hoo. I put your mail on the table downstairs, didn’t you see it?”

She waved it around until Sherlock stepped over and took it.

“The one with the snowflake looks promising. Maybe a new case?”

“Snowflake?” He went through the pile, pulling the letter with the snowflake print out and shoving the rest back at Mrs Hudson.

“Really, Sherlock, I am not your butler, you know?” Realising that he was no longer listening, she put the mail on the kitchen table and went back to her own flat.

Sherlock stared at the contents of the envelope for a few minutes, then he grabbed his coat and rushed out. His tea stood on the kitchen table, cooling slowly. Next to it was his phone, also forgotten about.

*

John woke again around noon to a silent flat. He wandered into the kitchen and found Sherlock’s phone and a cold mug of tea next to the mail. He frowned, but assumed Sherlock was downstairs with Mrs Hudson, since he vaguely remembered hearing her voice earlier.

When Sherlock hadn’t returned an hour later, he went downstairs only to find that Mrs Hudson had apparently gone out. A small knot of worry started to form in his stomach.

*

At 5:00 pm he had called everybody but Mycroft and at 7:00 pm he finally caved and called even him. No one knew where Sherlock was. At 8:00 pm the flat was filled with people: Mrs Hudson (fretting), Lestrade (also fretting but still trying to be rational) and Mycroft (outwardly cool, internally more hysterical than Mrs Hudson).

Around midnight John was ready to kill all three of them _and_ Sherlock for not taking his bloody phone.


	16. Baby please come home

Sherlock pulled the envelope out of his coat pocket to look at its content one more time. The photographs of the tattoos were clearly not the ones taken by forensics. Nobody else would have had access to the corpses to take such photos then but murderer. Next, there was a letter, printed on thick paper and folded trice, addressed to him. _Sherlock Holmes, you really ought to do better_. 

And it was personal, clearly, but Sherlock couldn’t think of who might have sent the letter. What he did know, though, was the public announcement board of the Belsize Community Library. It had taken him a while to wander through Hampstead, trying to remember which building seemed familiar enough to him to evoke a sense of memory. It had gotten dark as he had visited city halls and galleries, post offices and supermarkets. And, finally, he had stopped and searched in his mind palace. It only took him a couple of minutes to find what he was looking for and he pitied himself for his stupidity. While the plaque commemorating the opening of the library in 1937 was just out of frame in the last photo of the envelope, he recognized the panelling and the cork wall of the announcement board. 

He closed his eyes for a moment and recalled the smell of old books and fresh ink and the very light smell of the bleached paper in the typewriters. So yes, this was personal. The murderer clearly knew that he had taken refuge in the library frequently when he was young, reading books from the adult sections without anyone bothering him about it. The librarian, Mrs Woodwinkle, a solemn, black woman who always wore a colourful scarf in her hair, had sometimes given him strange looks, but she had always brought him books on the topics he had requested, and sometimes a cup of hot cocoa in the front room. 

Yet he couldn’t quite grasp the connection between the snowflake murderer and his own childhood library. “Oh for Christ’s sake,” he chided himself when he realised he had given the murderer a nickname. John must never know. 

He opened his eyes again, losing the memory of the familiar smell and crossed the road. The library would close soon and he needed to hurry if he wanted to look for clues. 

When he entered, he was disappointed to learn that the smell had changed. When he walked the reading room, simply rushing past the young librarian sitting at the counter and ignoring his comments about being forbidden to take his coat into the room, he understood why that was. The furniture was relatively new and where typewriters had rattled away, people sat with their laptops or phones, and, if at all, took notes with ballpoint pens. He inhaled deeply and filed the smell away, but without replacing the old. He liked how the place had smelled when he was young and it was one of the few memories he wanted to hold on to. 

The librarian had risen from behind the counter and came to stand next to him, trying to really very quietly shout at him. Sherlock decided that he couldn’t be bothered and simply stepped around him and towards the public announcement board. Most of the leaflets on the photograph were still pinned to the wall, so it couldn’t have been very long since it had been taken. 

When the librarian approached him again, looking thunderous now, Sherlock stepped right into his path. “Thank you for offering to help,” he started. Politeness would lead to success, John sometimes said. He wasn’t sure why the man turned a little white around the nose at his words. 

“Have you seen a man taking pictures of this wall this week?”

The librarian was so baffled by Sherlock’s question that he answered without thinking. “Erm, no. Not that I can think of.”

“Useless,” Sherlock muttered before he reframed his question. “Have you noticed anything strange going on in the library?”

This time, the man had recovered a little. “Well, certainly, yes. You walk in here without showing your patron pass and without taking off your coat. The audacity …”

“Right, apart from that,” Sherlock rolled his eyes. Politeness didn’t actually lead to success. 

“No. Now would you please leave the reading room. You’re bothering the other patrons.”

“How often do people advertise on that wall?”

The man stared daggers at him, so Sherock stared daggers back, which led to a further whitening around the nose and finally a long, exhausted sigh. “Every couple of days.”

“Were any notes put up that seemed strange to you?”

“I don’t read them, usually.”

Sherlock imitated the sigh and shook his head. “And this is what Mrs Woodwinkle gets replaced by. What a shame.”

“Pardon?”

“Can I use your phone?” Sherlock attempted a smile but he could tell from the librarian’s expression that he failed. 

“If you promise to leave after?”

“Absolutely,” Sherlock nodded and held out his hand. The man shook his head as he pulled his phone out of his pocket. Sherlock grinned as he took it from him, but he refrained from dissecting the man’s biography from the clues the phone offered him. He simply sent a text to John, assuming that he might have started to worry due to him forgetting his phone at home. _Baby, please come home!_ the text read and he immediately deleted it after sending it. 

John had made it a rule that if he did forget or purposefully left is phone at home, he would borrow someone’s phone and text that line as code for “I’m alright, don’t worry.”

Then he turned around once more, looking at a small scrap of paper which still hung on a pin while the rest had been torn off. Bits of ink were still visible and what had caught his attention was one third of a snowflake on one side of the scrap and _Free Ta_ on the other.

Free tattoos. Someone had offered free tattoos? What kind of community service was that? “Sorry,” he turned around and handed the phone back to the man who looked both offended and intrigued now. Sherlock realised he must have muttered to himself while performing some sort of dance in front of the board, scrutinizing the paper scrap. “Have any of your patrons inquired about getting a free tattoo?”

“Erm,” the librarian looked a little lost and then surprise blossomed on his face. “No, but I know that George offered to do them for people as a way to practice. He was …”

“Learning how to tattoo. Of course!” Sherlock turned around himself once, seeking out John. Remembering that John wasn’t with him, he stopped and turned to the very confused librarian. “He offered his services, right here. On this board. And three patrons responded. I need to see your patron register! This is the missing link!” 

“I can’t do that!”

“Never mind!” Sherlock shook his head. “I know they will be on the list!” He tipped his imaginary hat and left the library, feeling quite accomplished, even though he wasn’t yet sure why. The tattoos were the link after all, but for a different reason than he had believed. If he had held the entire leaflet in his hand, he was fairly sure that it would have featured a print of “Make a Wish.” All victims were linked to … well, George, or body number 4. 

He was so preoccupied that he did not notice the man who stepped out of the shadow of the doorway of a neighbouring house.


	17. Wonder

Sherlock stared into the darkness, his mind whirling, trying to put the pieces together.

“Took you long enough.”

The voice was smooth and the man it belonged to was tall, dark-haired and had astoundingly grey eyes.

Sherlock didn’t say anything, just took in all the little details of the man’s appearance. The man looked back and Sherlock couldn’t shake the feeling that he saw nearly as much as he himself did. After a few seconds the man turned and walked towards the now empty playground, not even checking if Sherlock followed. Of course he did.

They walked uphill for almost 15 minutes until they reached a house with a large but neglected garden. The man entered, waited until Sherlock had followed and then locked the door. He showed Sherlock to a living room with an unlit fireplace and two armchairs.

They took their respective seats and Sherlock decided to ignore the blade on the table next to the man’s chair for now.

“This is rather dramatic, wouldn’t you say?”

The man ignored him. Clearly a different approach was needed.

“So you did not bring me here to give a long speech justifying your actions?”

“You’re the one who should be justifying his actions!”

The sudden outburst was unexpected. Sherlock blinked, more pieces of the puzzle falling into place.

He got up and walked to the fireplace where the same pictures hung that he had got in the mail. He looked at the ones he hadn’t seen before.

“You were trying to get my attention with these. You _want_ me to solve these cases.”

“They should not have been necessary!”

“Should not have been… You are pointing towards the original so-called Christmas Murderer. It couldn’t have been you, you would have been a child.”

“As were you.”

Oh, now things were finally getting interesting! Sherlock sat back down, again ignoring the blade that was now in the man’s hand.

“You were there too, back then? You were watching. You must have been a strange child.”

“As were you.”

“You were hoping for me to be what? A companion? An equal?”

“We are not equal. I am better than you. I _was_ better than you! I solved the case.”

Oh. OH!

“You killed the Christmas Murderer. That’s why he suddenly stopped.”

“I was trying to get your attention. But you were blind.”

“I was moved to France by my parents. They thought a change of scenery would help.”

Both men scoffed.

“Why start again now? How did you find me again after all these years? Of course, the case involving the Prime Minister’s daughter. It was rather public.”

The man smiled.

“You don’t want to be stopped.”

“No. That’s not why you are here.”

“Which means you cannot let me leave.”

The blade gleamed in the light.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> It's not the good kind of wonder. Sorry. :P


	18. Exhausted

Sherlock tried to keep his eyes open. He should not have accepted the offer of a tumbler of brandy, but he knew he would have been in greater danger had he refused. He was utterly exhausted. Outside, the first grey light peeked over the horizon. The view was actually quite something, he found, wondering whether, if he ever grew tired of London, he’d be able to live in a house with a view. Maybe the southern coast? With a lovely garden and a handful of boxes for beekeeping. John would bring tea outside and they could sweeten it with their own honey.

He felt something hot and burning pierce the skin of his forearm and jerked awake. He found his adversary staring down at him with pity. The tip of the knife gleamed red. “You’re just like the rest of them, the man sad. “Nothing special after all. And you could have achieved so much. Instead you waste your life on petty theft and being a lap dog for your big brother. You’re pathetic.”

Sherlock stared dumbfounded at the cut in his coat. Without him making the conscious decision the fingers of his left undid the button on his shirt cuff and he pulled the sleeves of his coat, jacket and shirt up. Blood was seeping out of a small cut in his arm. The knife must have been very sharp.

Through the haze of whatever drug the man had spiked the brandy with, Sherlock’s thoughts began to focus on a single target. He did not usually feel the need to hurt anyone just for the sake of it. But the man had cut through his coat and that would not go unpunished. And while he knew that a life sentence in a high security state prison would be the better punishment, he allowed himself, just for a few seconds, to imagine using his rusty martial arts skills on him. 

“If I’m so pathetic, why did you feel the need to drug me?” he asked, quite aware of how drowsy he sounded. He decided to not care. In fact, he might be able to make use of it.

“Well, I know that you aren’t defenseless.”

“But why am I here. Just so you can kill me, too, and call it a day? Who will you be upset with after you’ve done it? It appears that I am quite the motivator for your little killing spree and I am certain that things won’t be the same after.”

“Maybe you will be my last?”

Sherlock couldn’t help but snort. The knife was trembling, just a little bit. 

“It would be a shame, though, wouldn’t it? I don’t even have a snowflake tattoo.”

This time, the man snorted. “I don’t give a flying fuck about the tattooes.”

Hmm. Anger. Interesting. “So why did you kill them if not for the tattoo?”

The man’s face did something funny and, despite the cotton his head seemed to be filled with, Sherlock recognised that expression. He was torn between wanting to boast and berating Sherlock for not knowing the answer. For the first time, he felt truly terrified of the similarities between them.

Predictably, the former urge won over, as it so often did with Sherlock. “The announcement board,” he started and Sherlock leaned back in his seat, his fingers unconsciously finding the cut in his coat. Another spark of hatred pierced his mind, sobering him up further. 

“Why are people so trusting? Why do people think others will simply help them, out of goodwill and charity. That’s not how life works.”

“So you killed them because they were offering to help others?”

“It’s pathetic,” he shook his head. “Offering to tattoo people for free? How could they not expect to be hurt in the process?”

Sherlock shook his head. There were so many rebuttals on the tip of his tongue, but he knew it would be better for his survival chances to not speak up then. 

“Black pudding, for an entire social housing block? Really? He had three gallons of pigs’ blood delivered to his doorstep. It was the easiest kill I have ever had. And free stationery for a local elementary school?”

“So you killed people who offered help? All men?”

The knife grated against the wooden table. Sherlock sniffed derisively. 

“She took up all of the offers. All of them. And she did not offer anything in return.”

“Like the cookies people leave outside for Santa?” Sherlock asked. He suddenly realised that the family with the white living room had probably been spared being murdered because they had, after all, left something in the living room in return. He wondered whether they also had responded to a note on the announcement board.

“It disturbed the equilibrium.”

“Of what? The universe?” Sherlock realised why his earlier words about his being a motivator had struck a chord with the man. If that was how he saw the world, not unlike Moriarty had seen it, he wouldn’t be able to kill Sherlock without regretting it. Yet, regret usually came after the deed, so he was far from safe. 

“The Christmas Murderer knew how to adhere to the rules. But you should have stopped him. And I gave you a _second chance_ , and you failed again.”

“I’m here after all, aren’t I?” Sherlock closed his eyes for a moment, fighting against light-headedness. Maybe he should have eaten something yesterday. 

“Not for long now, though,” the man stood up and walked around the table toward Sherlock. 

“Oh, I beg to differ,” Sherlock said and stood up to face him.


	19. Escape

The blade was now pressed against Sherlock's jugular and therefore it seemed appropriate to pay attention to it.

Sherlock was never one to count on luck, but he also did not ignore it when it showed its face.

The eerie silence that had accompanied their struggle so far was suddenly cut through by the shrill sound of a phone. Momentarily distracted, the man lowered the blade far enough for Sherlock to turn his head away so that the blade was closer to his clavicle. He then released all the tension from his muscles, making his body as heavy and unmanageable as a sack of flour. It surprised the man enough to let go.

Sherlock stayed on the ground, rolled over, hooked one foot behind the man’s left leg and kicked at his knee with the other. There was a satisfying crunch and then his opponent went down with a scream.

Sherlock jumped to his feet, kicked the blade out of the man’s hand (the way he handled the blade, he was an expert knife thrower) and turned towards the door. Then he remembered the locked door, grabbed the nearest chair and smashed a window in.

The second blade (probably hidden in a sleeve) missed him by a hair as he jumped through the window out into the night.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Chocolamouse said the following in her comment on chapter 17: "I bet next time this blade is mentioned it will be something like, "The blade was now pressed against Sherlock's jugular but it was boring so he didn't pay attention.""
> 
> It made me laugh like a drain and think that something like that should be how I open the next chapter. Thank you, Chocola, you are a genius!


	20. Christmas Present

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Ha, Anarion writes the super kick ass short chapters, and here I am, writing an essay :p 
> 
> Thanks for reading! Your comments are very much appreciated! xx

Sherlock was grateful that despite his lingering drowsiness, his body remembered how to land properly, rolling over his shoulder once before the momentum of the jump brought him back to his feet. Instinctively, he picked up the knife that had landed right next to him, bit down on the blade to have both hands free to scale the garden wall and then he took off.

The killer most likely had a gun and in this moment sharp regret almost brought him to a halt. If he had given John a hint as to where he was, maybe he would be here now to help keep the man in check. He took the knife into his left hand and slowed his run a little to be able to look back. 

A lone silhouette against the brightening sky slowly made its way towards him, down the hill. The calm of it all disoriented Sherlock somewhat. He had been prepared to run all the way to the next Tube station, but not this. He squinted, trying to see if the man had more knives or other weapons on him. As the sun climbed over the horizon and golden light suddenly flooded the hill, he could see the gleam of the knife in his hand. He made sure to shield the knife he held against the light as not to give away that he had taken it. 

Then he began to move backwards, keeping the pace the man dictated. He wondered whether, once understanding that he couldn’t kill Sherlock, the man would take his own life. But no, serial killers like him did not kill themselves, normally. Chances were that he would forever hope to get to Sherlock, considering his obsession with him, but Sherlock did not want to guess and decided that it could go either way. 

He was so distracted by his own thoughts that he stumbled into an early morning runner who had also not paid attention to him, listening to loud music. She plucked out her ear pods to scold him but Sherlock knew she suddenly presented a chance to him. 

“Please, call the police!” he said urgently as he slowly walked away from her. Apparently, he looked desperate enough for her to just stare at him with wide eyes. "Do it quickly. Make sure DI Greg Lestrade knows that Sherlock Holmes is here. DI Lestrade. Insist on that. This is important. Now keep running. Don't look to your left! Pretend that nothing's happened!” He continued to back away and the woman immediately took off at what Sherlock assumed was a normal pace for an early morning run. He could see her pull out her phone from it’s sleeve and dial a number before she was too far away. 

He continued down hill until he had to cross a small bridge. He knew it would be harder to find them if he entered the streets, so he forced himself to stop, his back against the pillar of the bridge, catching his breath. Lestrade would be at home and very likely asleep. They didn’t know he was in danger. John, hopefully, would also be asleep and not worry too much. He felt something in his chest tighten for a moment, imagining coming home to find John sleeping in their bed, an open book next to him and his watch neatly placed on the bedside table next to a glass of water and his alarm clock. He recalled the vision he had had earlier and for the first time in his life, he could imagine leaving all this behind. Eventually. If he survived. 

The man was now approaching him faster, possibly realising that Sherlock was waiting for him but afraid he might run off after all. He was sure that he wouldn’t throw his remaining knife, because, if he missed, it would sink into the small canal behind him.

“You think you can just walk away?” The man asked when he was in earshot and Sherlock was ready to say something along the lines of “obviously”, but the expression on his face told him that it would be better to not say anything right then. 

“You know that I know where you live. Where your friends live. Where your parents live. A nice little Holmes collection could be my next project.”

“Are you threatening my whole family now?”

“So much wasted potential.”

“My brother is practically the British Government.”

“And look what a meal of it he’s been making recently,” the man shook his head. “No. None of you do what you were born to do.”

“I brought down Moriarty.”

“He killed himself. You did nothing. You stood by and watched him kill himself.”

“It was surprising, I admit,” Sherlock nodded. “But I had him in my grasp.”

“Just as you did the Christmas murderer?”

Sherlock rolled his eyes. “I told you. I wasn’t allowed.”

“You always had a choice.”

Sherlock felt his blood run cold a little. “You wanted me to kill my family so I could find another killer?”

“Why not.”

“Oh, I can think of quite a number of reasons,” Sherlock took a step forward. He did not feel comfortable being crowded in by the man so he tried to do the same to him. “Number one would have been that I am not a compulsive murderer.”

“Compulsive?”

“Would you say it’s a choice, then, for you?” Sherlock knew that sounding too conversational might not be appropriate, but it seemed to work with the man. 

“Of course it’s a choice. Every kill was a choice.”

“The sooty footprints, the eaten cookies. I see.”

“I chose not to kill them.”

“They did not fit your pattern,” Sherlock sighed. “If they had offered to help or accepted help, they would be dead in that white, white house.”

“And that would have been a choice.”

Sherlock wasn’t sure whether the droning noise he heard should be a relief to him. 

“Did you kill your parents then, to be able to take down the Christmas murderer?”

“Oh, no, I didn’t have to. They weren’t holding me back.”

Sherlock snorted. “Is that a thing, in your family, murdering people?”

The man rolled his eyes and for the first time, his face relaxed a little. “Not quite. Might have made it harder for me, actually, if they had the same interests. In truth, they did not care much what I was doing.”

“Hmm, well, the not caring part I get. It was a little more selective with mine. But sending me away when I was so close, that was just cruel.” He saw the helicopter touch down on the other side of the vast meadow they were standing on. “I do wonder how you would have reacted if I had managed to solve the case.” Sherlock forced himself to look at the man. He took a step to the left as to direct his attention away from the men approaching them quickly. He knew that they might be too late, but he was impressed by the speed of it all. 

“I don’t know,” the killer clasped his knife a little harder and Sherlock understood that he knew what was going on. What a mistake to underestimate him! He pushed his hands into his coat pockets as if to shield them from the cold. His left hand lay on the hilt of the knife but he knew that if he pulled it out now, he would likely die. 

“Did you ever think it would end like this?” The man took a step closer to Sherlock, but he did not stand as close as he had in his house, having learned from Sherlock’s self-defense tactic. 

“No. Not really.” Sherlock shook his head. “I don’t think you want to kill me and I have no interest in killing you.” The anger that suddenly flashed over the other man’s face let the final piece of the puzzle fall into place. The man hadn’t killed Sherlock because he wanted Sherlock to kill him. He had given him several opportunities, including cutting his coat which had almost succeeded in making Sherlock lose it, and he had not taken off when the helicopter had approached, because he wanted Sherlock to kill him in front of everyone’s eyes. 

“I mean, why should I? What would I gain from it? Do you think because you show me your house and your little collection of bodies and you admit to your obsession with me, I would feel the need to kill you? I don’t know how all of this works for you, but I’m not getting off on killing people. I’m not compulsive like you.”

“I have complete control!” The knife appeared between them and Sherlock hoped dearly that nobody would train their gun on him now. As they stood, it wouldn’t be safe to shoot. He also did not want the man to die. 

Sherlock gave him a look of disdain. “If you did, you would drop your weapon now and let them arrest you. The game is over. You’ve played your hand and you did not win.”

“How can you live with yourself?” Were those tears in the man’s eyes? Sherlock swallowed, wondering how close to having the blade run straight into his chest he was. “How can you waste your mind, your brilliance?”

Sherlock shook his head. “I told you before. I’m not wasting it. I’m making choices, just like you.” Maybe accepting the man’s view of himself would be the key out of this box whose walls moved ever closer together. 

The knife’s tip was now pressed against Sherlock’s chest and he wanted nothing more than to take a step back to ensure that there wouldn’t be a second cut to his coat. Funny, how he did not fear a cut to his own flesh as much as to his coat. 

“Do it then,” he murmured. “Kill me and know you kept me from my true potential, just like my parents did.”

The man’s hand trembled and then he pushed forward. Having anticipated the move, Sherlock sidestepped him and pushed him hard against the bannister of the bridge. The knife slipped from his hand and landed in the murky water below. The desperate roar that came from the man turned into a whimper as Sherlock’s knee connected with his back. A moment later they were surrounded by men in uniform and battle gear and Sherlock had to smile at the fact that Lestrade had probably overstated the severity of the operation. Yet he was relieved that they had been this quick. 

“Sherlock!” Lestrade came sprinting towards him and stopped dead in his tracks. His eyes roamed over his face and body and then he very carefully drew him into a hug. Sherlock was so surprised that he just let it happen. “Oh, thank god you’re alive!”

When he moved back, Sherlock could see that he hadn’t slept. He wondered why that was before he remembered the librarian. He had probably called the police afterwards, just to report that this very strange man had come into the library and asked strange questions. Ahh, see something, say something. He chuckled. “Merry Christmas,” he said and pointed at the man who had now been handcuffed. “That’s my Christmas present to you.”

“Nah,” Lestrade scoffed. “You being alive is my Christmas present! Though, John might still kill you after all of that.”


	21. Winter

The city was still covered in snow and all was quiet and - mostly thanks to the very early hour - peaceful. Sherlock walked towards his home and entered quietly, in hopes of not waking Mrs Hudson.

Of course he was _not_ coming home to find John sleeping in their bed, an open book next to him and his watch neatly placed on the bedside table next to a glass of water and his alarm clock.

He came home to John standing at the right window in the living room, hands clasped behind his back, gazing out the window. He spoke without turning.

“You have some nerve!”

“I… what? But I sent you a message.”

“Yes. And then you proceeded to be missing for another 12 hours. And _then_ I get a call from Greg about shots fired and a bleeding man on the street. Why don’t you, for once, put yourself in my shoes?”

“I’m sorry. The case… and… the letter… I didn’t think.”

“Yeah, you never do.”

John was still not looking at him and his voice was not angry, just disappointed. Which was even scarier than anger. Lestrade must have told him that Sherlock was wounded, but not life-threatening, otherwise John would have demanded.to look at his wounds as soon as he got in.

Finally John turned around and said, “Let’s get you patched up, then.”

It was a familiar ritual, but usually it was frequently interrupted by gentle caresses and giddy recaps of their adventure. This time it was silent and sober. Sherlock didn’t like it.

When John was done, Sherlock grabbed his hand and pulled him closer, without touching anything but his hand. John didn’t like being touched when he was angry.

“John. I’m really sorry. I didn’t mean to worry you. I will try to do better.”

John’s stance loosened and Sherlock knew that he would be forgiven. Some groveling might be necessary and some show of goodwill. Oh! He just had the perfect idea of what to do!


	22. Miracle

“I take it you did not get any sleep,” John held his chin in his hand and turned his head left and right as if to see if he had missed any of the cuts. His throat burned where the knife had broken through his skin. 

“I was drugged for a while. I do feel better now.” Then he remembered his arm. He lifted his hand and John’s eyes widened at the blood on his fingers. But when he wanted to clean it away, Sherlock shook his head and pointed at the cut. 

“Oh no, he did _not_ do that!” Within the span of a few seconds John had gone from fed up to utterly angry. Sherlock wondered if maybe knowing how much it upset John was worth the cut. But then he remembered how his stomach had twisted painfully at the realisation and he nodded. “He did.” His voice sounded strangely choked. When John very carefully pulled the coat off his shoulders and gently laid it aside, Sherlock was more than surprised when John turned his attention back to him and his arm and not the coat. The jacket followed and then John was unbuttoning his shirt, pushing it over his shoulders, too, before he very carefully freed first his good arm and then peeled the cotton off the arm with the cut. While the wound had closed against the sleeve, the removal of the cloth opened it again. 

John sighed and gave Sherlock a searching look. “I’m sorry. I shouldn’t be angry with you. What happened?” He very carefully began cleaning the wound and then closed it with a patch. “You might need stitches. We’ll see if we need to go to the hospital later.” Then he cleaned the rest of the blood away before he picked up the bloodied shirt. His hands were shaking lightly and Sherlock felt a little sick. 

“Tell me?” John asked and led him to the couch where he wrapped him into a blanket and then pulled him into his arms. 

So Sherlock told him about the envelope and about how he had been sure he’d be safe and how he’d realised that he wasn’t. The uncanny likeness between him and the murderer. And the vision of their retirement home. John’s fingers played with his hair while his other hand stroked the skin of his chest under the blanket just where his heart was. 

When Sherlock told him about the showdown, John began cursing quietly. “I really wanted you there,” Sherlock admitted. “It wasn’t the first time that I knew you would have saved me, but you really would have resolved all of this much faster.”

“He drugged and threatened you. I don’t think I would have let him get away with it.”

“So you _are_ glad you weren’t with me!” Sherlock tried, knowing that John would know what he was doing. 

“Fuck you,” John chuckled and pinched a nipple, surprising Sherlock. 

“I’m sorry,” he said again and John kissed his neck, just above the plaster. 

“Do you want to go to bed?”

“Oh, no, there’s something I have to do first. Let me get dressed. I promise I will come home with you after.”

“Are we going to the hospital?” 

“I don’t think he cut anything important. I can still feel my fingers and move everything.”

“He cut you! You're important!" John said exasperatedly, and kissed him again. "You are stupidly lucky, do you know that?”

“And he did cut the coat!”

“I know. I’m sorry this happened.”

Sherlock sighed deeply before he got up. “I’ll get dressed.”

When he returned from the bedroom, he looked much more put together than he had any right to be. He wore a different jacket and scarf, a dark red one that John had once bought him when Sherlock’s had one been doused in coffee when a client had excitedly tried to thank him for his service, forgetting he was still holding a mug of coffee when he raised his arms in triumph.

And he wore a coat that looked wrong, even though it was similarly cut to the other one. “Not a word!” said Sherlock and left the flat. John sighed. “Take your phone, Sherlock!” He picked it up after all and handed it to him on the curb where Sherlock had just managed to stop another cab. John would never understood how Sherlock did it. 

“New Scotland Yard,” Sherlock said and looked out of the window as the cab started driving. His hand found John’s and held on to it until they had reached their destination. Once there, he pulled John halfway through the building, and, to John’s great surprise, past Lestrade’s office and further down the hall. At the very end, he knocked on the last door. Anderson’s office. John was incredibly confused. 

He was even more confused when Anderson’s face did something funny at Sherlock’s presence, annoyance and surprise battling for dominance, and Sherlock didn’t say anything offensive to him in answer. 

“Anderson, I have to apologise,” Sherlock said, sounding quite earnest, John thought. “I am sorry I refused to listen to your opinion. You were clearly right about our suspect not having come through the chimney and it was childish of me trying to prove you wrong when I did know that you were right.”

John stared at him. Anderson stared at him. Lestrade, who had seen them pass his office and had been curious and followed them, stared at him. 

“I hope you accept my apology,” Sherlock finished and turned on his heels, heading for the door, which was blocked by Lestrade. “John, are you coming?”

John looked from Lestrade to Anderson and back, entirely flabbergasted. “It’s a Christmas miracle,” Lestrade suddenly burst out and raised his arms over his head. “Hallelujah. That I would live to see the day!”

John burst out laughing and Anderson simply turned a little pink, trying hard not to giggle along. 

Sherlock walked down the corridor, smiling to himself. He found that he did, in fact, mean his apology and he knew that if John had still been mad at him, he couldn’t possibly hold it against him after this. Maybe he should apologise to people more often?


	23. Sentiment

It was barely past five when they arrived home. Sherlock moved towards the standard lamp to turn on the lights, when John said, “Leave it. We both barely slept last night. Want to come to bed with me straight away?”

Sherlock tossed the replacement coat over the nearest chair and walked back to John. He pulled him close and burried his nose in John’s hair. He hummed his agreement before stepping back and walking towards their bedroom.

Ten minutes later they were curled up in bed, John with both arms around Sherlock, as if that would keep him safe and sound in the future. 

Sherlock closed his eyes and sighed with pleasure. They were both asleep in an instant.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I am already drowning in Christmas preparations at my family's place, so this one is rather short again.
> 
> Happy holidays to all of you from me, Anarion! Enjoy the last chapter from Days of Storm tomorrow and thank you for reading and leaving all those lovely comments! <3


	24. And to All a Good Night

Christmas Eve. Lestrade and Molly had left (Rosie was spending Christmas with Sherlock’s parents), Mrs Hudson had helped them put the leftovers into the fridge, poured the last punch into two mugs and made them sit down in their respective armchairs by the dying fire. The flat was lit by a multitude of fairy lights which Molly had not only brought along, but simply hung up, despite Sherlock’s grumbling. Once she was done, she had stood in front of him, her hands on her hips and her chin raised and simply said “Sherlock, have you noticed how lovely John’s eyes and hair look in this light?” and raised her right eyebrow in a challenging manner. 

Sherlock had tried to stare her down, but he lost the battle and finally looked over to where John stood, his face flushed, while Lestrade seemed more confused than John could remember ever having seen him outside a crime scene. 

“Fine, leave them,” Sherlock had finally said and disappeared into the kitchen where he had proceeded to loudly pluck plates, cups and glasses out of the cupboards. John had simply stood in the middle of the living room when Molly had turned to him, gave him a once over and shrugged. “It’s true. But it’s true for everyone,” she smiled and kissed Lestrade. “That includes you and him,” she indicated the kitchen. 

John did notice that Sherlock would look at him whenever he walked past or stood close to one of the light strands, so he made sure to stand close to them as often as he could while pretending to not notice Sherlock’s interest. 

Now that they were both sitting in their chairs and Mrs Hudson handed each of them a mug with punch, John suddenly couldn’t wait for Mrs Hudson to retire downstairs. He had plans involving Sherlock getting naked and fairy lights. 

But Mrs Hudson proceeded to stand there and look down on the two of them with a smile on her face. Finally, she sighed and shook her head. “Remember when you told me you would need the second bedroom?” she asked John, who had, in fact, forgotten about it. “I always knew you wouldn’t, eventually.”

“What are you talking about, Mrs Hudson. You’re not a clairvoyant,” Sherlock said, sounding interested nonetheless. John tried to remember the day when he had walked into this flat for the first time. While he couldn’t remember the details, he did remember Sherlock standing very close to him, asking him whether he wanted to come along to their first crime scene. He looked at Sherlock and found him looking back at him with a smile. 

“I’m just saying. I had a feeling,” she continued. “The way you suddenly gave Sherlock something to focus on,” she shook her head. “That had never happened before. Anyway, I just wanted to tell you that I am very glad that you two have each other and this is your tenth Christmas together, so I thought I’d give you something special.” She pulled an envelope out of the pocket of her dress. She held it out to both of them, but Sherlock didn’t move, so John finally took the envelope from her. 

“What is it?” John asked, running his finger tips over the envelope. 

“Open it,” Mrs Hudson nodded encouragingly. Sherlock sipped on his punch. 

John carefully pulled open the envelope and tucked a single sheet free from it. It was a photocopy of Mrs Hudson’s will. John stared at her. “What?”

“I’m fine, John. This is just … for future reference.”

John saw how Sherlock lowered his mug and placed it on the arm of his chair. His hand was shaking lightly and John wondered what Sherlock already knew. 

John read the short paragraphs of her will, dated and stamped already a few years back. It stated that she wanted all of her property to be signed over to them in case of her death. The property that was listed was the entire house in Baker Street, a flat in Hackney whose address John recognised as being one of Sherlock’s hideouts and a cottage with a large garden in Sussex. 

He folded the sheet carefully and returned it to its envelope. He couldn’t see her for the tears in his eyes. 

“I do consider you two my next of kin, and I want you to have something to fall back on. I know that your income isn’t exactly stable. Obviously, you will continue to pay your rent until the very end of me, but after that, it’s yours.”

“You’re giving us Baker Street?” Sherlock finally asked, his voice full of wonder, and Mrs Hudson chuckled. “Once I’m gone, you’ll have to take care of all the chemical burns in your tables and carpets, and I’m sure it’ll be easier if you own the place.”

John wondered whether he should say something about the cottage, but he guessed that since Sherlock did not seem to want to read the will and Mrs Hudson didn’t say anything, it might be something with which he could surprise Sherlock eventually, especially since he had talked about retirement just recently. Yet he could not and did not want to imagine life without Mrs Hudson in it. She took the envelope back and sighed again. “I’m going downstairs now. I intend on sleeping in tomorrow, so please be quiet in case you … have plans.”

She kissed both of her tenants - and heirs - on the cheek and then left the flat with a quiet “merry Christmas and to all a good night”.

They sat in silence in front of the fireplace, staring at each other. John could tell that Sherlock was incredibly touched and had no idea what to do with his emotions. John finished his punch and got up, holding out his hand to Sherlock. “Come on, Sherlock. Let’s go to bed.”

Sherlock took his hand but instead of getting up, he pulled until John had to climb on top of him. John took the mug and placed it on the small table he could just reach before he kissed Sherlock. Sherlock’s arms sneaked around his back and he pulled him close and pressed his face against John’s chest. John cradled his head and kissed his hair until Sherlock exhaled shakily and pulled back a little. “She must have had too much to drink,” he shook his head. “She can’t possibly mean it.” 

“It had the notary’s stamp and all …” John kissed him again. “Come on. Bed.”

John brushed his teeth first and then picked up the mugs to place them into the sink before he unhooked one of the fairy light chains from the mirror above the mantelpiece. It was battery powered, which pleased John. He switched it off and took it into the bedroom and hid it under the bed for a moment. When Sherlock came out of the bathroom, freshly showered despite the late hour, and with red eyes which gave away his emotional state, John made him sit down on the bed and towelled his hair dry. 

“You know,” John smiled and gently touched the fading red line on his throat. “It’s strange to know that there is a person who is so similar to you in this world.”

“A terrible, horrible man!” Sherlock complained and John chuckled. 

“Hmm, but you know what? There’s a lot that you have that he doesn’t.”

“You?” Sherlock asked and pulled him closer, opening John’s jeans. 

“Hmm, I wasn’t thinking so much in terms of possessions, but, you know, talent.”

“You’re not a possession.”

“Hmm,” John chuckled and helped him push down his jeans and underwear before he stepped out of them and Sherlock started to pull up his jumper. “I’m fairly sure I belong to you, at least.”

“You’re a free man,” Sherlock murmured as he began to unbutton John’s shirt as he pulled his jumper over his head and dropped it to the ground behind him. 

“I’m really not,” John smiled sweetly as his fingers met Sherlock’s in the middle of his shirt. He pushed it off his shoulders and his undershirt followed. Sherlock looked down to his feet and grinned at the Christmas socks John was wearing. Red and green stripes with _Ho Ho Ho_ witten on them. 

“Leave them,” Sherlock said before he reached behind him and opened the small drawer on his bedside table, fishing out a condom and the lube. “You or me?” he asked and John felt himself stir. Sherlock watched him with a smile that made John grow hard. “Alright then,” Sherlock licked his lips and then poured some lube onto his palm before he wrapped his hand around John. 

This was nothing like the quick blowjob by the bathtub. This was Sherlock concentrating entirely on him, with nowhere else to go and nothing else to do. He felt goosebumps rise on his arms and the back of his neck. When Sherlock sped up for a moment, he moaned, and, as if that had been the signal Sherlock had been waiting for, he wrapped his other hand around himself and stroked until he was hard, too. When he stopped, they were both breathing heavily. 

“Lie down,” John said and took the condom from the bed, opened the foil and rolled it onto himself. Then he picked up the fairy lights from under the bed. Sherlock gave him a doubtful look but did as he had been asked and spread his legs with a grin. John switched off the ceiling light and growled in reaction to Sherlock's move. He climbed between his legs, switching on the fairy lights and draping them around Sherlock so he was bathed in light. Then he applied copious amounts of lube, aware that it had been quite some time since he had slept with Sherlock like this. He took his time, too, to prepare him, knowing that they could sleep in the next day, too. And then maybe light another fire and just spend time together, with John typing up the most recent cases while Sherlock cursed at the telly. And then they could take a walk through the snow that, as if by magic, continued to fall and cover London again just when it seemed that it would all melt away. 

“John?” Sherlock interrupted his musings and he leaned over to kiss him. “I think I’m good to go,” Sherlock said, sounding a little choked. John noticed that he was already quite hard and he wondered what Sherlock had been thinking about while he had been mentally planning Christmas Day. 

He wiped his hands on Sherlock’s wet towel and moved closer, giving himself another couple of strokes before he pushed inside Sherlock slowly. He closed his eyes and let himself fall forward, and Sherlock wrapped his arms around him. They looked at each other, faces bright, eyelashes almost glowing in the light of a two dozen tiny bulbs. 

John was amazed by how much he had missed being this close to Sherlock and his plans for Christmas Day began taking on a slightly different shape. And Boxing Day. And the day after. 

They moved as one, slowly incresing the speed of their movements and gasping each other's names. “Merry Christmas,” John moaned eventually, just before he came and Sherlock laughed and held him harder only to follow a few moments later. “Merry Christmas, John,” he kissed against his lips. 

For a while, they remained like this, pressed together and happy, but then John pushed himself up. “One more thing, since it’s after midnight and all,” he plucked the condom off and wiped Sherlock’s and his own stomachs and cocks with the towel, before he threw it into the bathroom and closed the door. Then he disappeared for a moment while Sherlock sat up, wondering what John was up to. When he returned, he held Sherlock’s coat in his arms. “Merry Christmas,” he placed it carefully, almost reverently, into Sherlock’s hands. 

Sherlock knew immediately what to look for and his fingers stroked up and down his sleeve, looking for the cut and not finding it. Then he turned it inside out and found that it had been very delicately closed with a very thin, blue thread. 

“You fixed it?”

“It was harder than sewing skin, to be honest,” John chuckled and wiped a tear from Sherlock’s cheek. “But I needed it to be fixed.”

“The thread,” Sherlock looked at him with wide eyes. “Is it …”

John nodded. “The scarf you wore when I met you.” 

“You kept it all these years?”

John shrugged. “Molly gave it to me after …”

Sherlock nodded. Better not to touch on that dark part of their lives again. He inhaled deeply and then let his breath out in a shuddering sigh. “Thank you!”

“You’re very welcome. Now, bed.” John took the coat from Sherlock and draped it across the back of a chair before he switched off the fairy lights and climbed into Sherlock’s arms. “Good night.”

“John?”

“Hmm?”

“You’re mine.”

John chuckled. “I said I was.”

“I know. I just needed to say it.”

John hugged him tightly. “Say it as often as you need to. And you’re a good man, you know?”

Sherlock sighed and pressed his face against John’s shoulder. He knew they probably wouldn’t leave the bed tomorrow and he was absolutely and one hundred percent fine with that. “Good night, John.”

“Merry Christmas!”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you so much for reading and commenting. This started out as a typical "Let's maybe do a calendar again this year ... ohh look there are prompts" thing and really quickly became a "but what if the murderer knew Sherlock when he was little ..." thing. It's been a joy to write these little stories. All typos etc. exist, because we never quite managed to plan ahead and write ahead, so everything was pretty much posted immediately. 
> 
> Now, all that's left for me is thank Anarion, for being a wonderful co-writer and friend, and to wish all of you a happy and peaceful Christmas!

**Author's Note:**

> Anarion and Days of Storm have re-joined the Advent Calendar madness! After a couple of years of pausing due to real life insanity we are back! Based on the prompt list by Miss Davis over on [Tumblr](https://missdaviswrites.tumblr.com/post/189210861512/2019-advent-ficlet-challenge), we are alternating in writing each day. We have decided to not settle on a format, so you might get longer pieces or shorter ones, depending on the muse (and let’s be real, also RL…).


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